Illusions of Hope
by goddess of darkness3
Summary: Ron doesn't have normal dreams. Please read and review


**AN**** (skip if you wish):** Almost three months after her birthday, and I finally have EiSeL's birthday fic for her. Even better, it's Angst!Ron.  
Takes place in sixth year.  
Quote at bottom.  
**Warnings:** Heterosexuality, mention of sex dreams, use of the name "Won-Won"**  
Disclaimer:**_Harry Potter_ belongs to J.K. Rowling and various other people/companies who didn't write/come up with crap and just make really bad toys.  
**Dedication:** To EiSeL. Happy Birthday. Sorry for the delay.

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**Illusions of Hope**  
By goddess of darkness3 

Ron knows the kinds of dreams normal teenage boys have. He hears Harry, Dean, Seamus – even Neville – moaning and panting into the night. There are no secrets in the boys' dorms once everyone's hit puberty. He knows it's normal to think of busty women, real or not, with long legs and no inhibitions. He knows it's normal to spend nights writhing and crying out, to wake up to an embarrassing stickiness, to run to the showers if the alarm goes off before the dream ends.

For Ron, however, it's different. Instead of faceless models with uncanny flexibility, he gets bushy hair and grinning children. Ron's always had vivid dreams, and this is no different: there she is – sometimes in the Burrow, sometimes in a house he doesn't recognize – sometimes reading, sometimes playing with a little girl with red curly hair or a little baby with freckles and brown fuzz – sometimes laughing, but always smiling. Always happy. Ron sees _them_, sees the matching rings and king sized bed, sees them going to the park with older versions of the little girl and boy or waiving goodbye as the two go off to Hogwarts, sees a million kisses and embraces that are nothing like the kinds of dreams he's _supposed_ to be having.

Normal teenage boys dream of sex and passion and dirty magazine models; Ron Weasley dreams of a wife and a family and a _life_. Even now that he's dating Lavender – even now when he should be full of hormones and lust, should be dreaming of breasts and thighs and lips because he knows how good they feel and why wouldn't he want to dream of them – he can't shake the visions of a bushy head looking up and smiling at him from a library book on the kitchen table.

Sometimes, Ron lies awake at night, listening to Harry make noises that are _definitely_ not caused by You-Know-Who or Seamus's brogue get thicker as he mutters to what sounds like a third girl to 'kiss 'im 'e's Irish.' He lies there, listening to his roommates become sweaty and sticky, and hopes that for once he can just be normal and dream of nameless girls who would never talk to him in real life. Because they're easily forgotten, the magazine girls and their skimpy outfits. _She_ is not. _That life_ is not. And he wishes so much that he could just have a meaningless sex dream that would be gone the next morning instead of waking up every day with her face and her laughter running through his mind.

She calls him distracted, tells him to do his homework because she's not helping him this time. He has to bite his tongue to keep from telling her that if she'd just stay out of his dreams, he wouldn't be having these troubles. But, sick as it is, he can't quite convince himself he wants the visions gone. He's not sleeping enough, he can't concentrate, his girlfriend's on the warpath and yet he still wants them. He still _needs_ them.

It hurts to see the rings, the children, the laughing, the smiling. It hurts to know they'll never be true because the only girl he can get to show any interest in him thinks he enjoys being called "Won-Won." Because the girl he loves will never think of him as more than a friend, as "that dumb red-head who should have done his homework more and couldn't even figure out that I was a girl and isn't nearly as impressive as Harry or Viktor." It hurts so much to know that none of it will ever happen and yet as much as he wishes to be normal, to stop the pain and self-deception, he _can't_. He _won't_. As much as it hurts, it's better than the alternative.

She says he's not complicated, "emotional range of a teaspoon" and all that. He wishes. Every night he's stuck in his own private hell and the worst part is he doesn't even want to escape. He's drowning in his misery and she still calls him incredibly shallow. But he hides his masochism, his unrequited feelings and unusual dreams, and lets her think what she will. Because she can never know. He can never tell her. He couldn't bear to have her laugh, or look embarrassed, or show him pity. Some hope is better than no hope at all.

Still, as he dreams of her lying on the couch in the living room or playing with the little boy in the back yard, he can't help but feel that some hope is not nearly enough.

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**AN:** yes, I know the ages are wrong for the kids to be Hugo and Rose. It's a _dream_. It has no bearing on future events. Or maybe they're prophetic but just non-linear.**  
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** Quote: **"There are some people who live in a dream world, and there are some who face reality; and then there are those who turn one into the other." – Douglas H. Everett


End file.
